


Waiting on a Friend

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Music, Romance, Sexual Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-15
Updated: 2005-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:27:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean finds a welcome distraction in his best mate's company. Set after <i>Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting on a Friend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Urnesha](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Urnesha).



> Written for the July round of the 2005 Pornish Pixies Fantasy Fest on LJ.

They turn off the lights at midnight so Seamus's mum thinks they're asleep, and they put up a silencing charm before dropping the needle on the old record player they sneaked down from the attic. It's dusty but it works, stored so long between Mrs. Finnigan's golden-fleece wool and a doxy nest that it's forgotten it's supposed to need electricity to run. Most of the records they found in the box beside it were rubbish—soppy-looking women in tartan clutching harps—but there was a whole stack at the bottom that probably belonged to Seamus's dad. The Rolling Stones, and The Beatles, and other Capitol Gold fare.

It's sort of weird, listening to Mick Jagger belting it out in here, because Seamus's house is usually filed under "wizard" in his head, the one place he can be normal over the summer. But it's good, too, because Seamus is even weirder for never having heard of the Stones, and teasing him about it gives Dean something to think about besides the important stuff, which is the whole point of spending half the holiday here anyway. They've lazed around, and read comics, and stole a bottle of whisky from the cupboard, and talked about everything but the last year.

No Voldemort, no worried mothers, no Quidditch tryouts, and no Ginny.

"Watching girls go passing by, it ain't the latest thing..."

He thinks about her, though, as Seamus sighs beside him and the stuffiness of the room presses down on him.

He liked Ginny. He really did. He liked having a girlfriend, and he liked snogging her, and he liked being _normal_ even if he's a wizard and a muggleborn both at the same time. But when he looks back on it now, there was something unreal about the whole thing.

Ginny's pretty. She's probably even beautiful. But there was always something strange about the way she fit in his hands, and not just because she's so much shorter. It was something about how she felt, how she touched him, the soft press of her chest against his. He remembers getting his hand inside her robes just once under the Quidditch stands—the five seconds it took for her to draw back—and it's something he still only guiltily wanks over.

Even the memory calls for an uncomfortable adjustment, and his hand is halfway down before he realises that Seamus is already holding him by the wrist. He looks up, surprised, to find Seamus studying his hand.

"Mind giving that back, mate?"

Seamus sticks out his tongue. "Yep." He doesn't let go, and Dean doesn't bother to fight over it, because Seamus is unreal too, but in a way he's long since got used to.

So he waits, squirming a little as Seamus traces a fingertip over each of his knuckles. A callus scrapes over his skin, startling him for an instant, making him uncomfortable, making his free hand dart out to close around Seamus's wrist in turn.

Seamus doesn't jump. He just looks at him like he's done something funny. He doesn't let go of Dean's wrist either, or stop from finishing his meandering little trail across to the other side of his hand.

It's somehow more noticeable when they're touching, the stark contrast of his skin against that freckled pink-white that hasn't done anything but burn this summer. That makes him think about Ginny too, in a way that flips his stomach.

Seamus rolls onto his side to face him and finally releases his hand, then makes for the other one, peeling each finger back from around his wrist to get to it. He holds it up towards the lamp, pulling a face, and it's only then that Dean realises he's been chewing his nails again. The spots where his hangnails used to be are nearly scarred, dried blood caked under what's left of the whites. He thought he'd grown out of that.

He's surprised enough at the sight of them that he doesn't even think to say anything when Seamus touches each fingertip, the raw-nerve contact making him twitch. Then Seamus is leaning closer and sort of...kissing them better. Loud enough to be funny, but he does all five.

"Um." He hesitates, wondering if he's being needled or not.

And in that second, Seamus lets him go, and Dean's hand is left hanging in midair as Seamus flops back beside him, arms behind his head and his knee brushing Dean's in a way that's more distracting than it was when he was eleven and first realised that Seamus didn't see anything wrong with draping himself over anything or anyone comfortable.

Seamus smiles at him then, and Dean suddenly eases. It's not the smile that Seamus turns on everyone else, but the crooked one that's just for when they're hanging around together. It's part of the thing that makes them best friends, even when Seamus is the last person he'd have ever talked to in the real world.

"You shouldn't bite your nails so much. It's disgusting."

Dean shrugs. "S'bad habit."

Seamus looks at him, his mouth twisting like he wants Dean to know that he'd ask what was wrong if he didn't know that the answer would fall into the chasm of things they aren't talking about this summer.

"You don't want to go home, do you?"

"_No_." He blurts it out straight from his gut and sees the naked relief on Seamus's face. He suddenly understands that as uncomfortable as it is at home for him these days, it would be even worse for Seamus to be alone with his mother here in the middle of nowhere.

The record whirrs, and the next song comes on, one he's never heard before, and his fingertips tingle. They lie in silence for a long time, listening to the scratchy music and each other's breathing as Dean thinks anxious thoughts that wear themselves down around the edges at Seamus's warm, quiet company.

It lasts until he's pulled out from the inside of his head by Seamus firmly grabbing him again and plucking his fingertip out of his mouth. Dean frowns; he didn't even realise he was doing it. Seamus squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back, and neither of them lets go as the seconds tick by, pushing it into something not quite normal.

Dean doesn't look at him, listening to his own heartbeat quickening, feeling a flush of heat spread over him. He knows he should say something—anything—to break up the secretive shadows around them, to dim the music and bring back Mrs. Finnigan's snoring from the next room.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he swallows hard and lets Seamus touch him in a way he knows isn't teasing. Little soft circles at the centre of his palm. The sharp edge of a nail. Warm. Dean is suddenly trying to convince his body that it really doesn't need a stiffie right now, but the thought that wriggles up over that is whether Seamus has one too.

He looks down to where his boxers have begun to bulge, then only manages to look at Seamus's lap for an instant before his gaze stutters up to his face.

Seamus wets his lips. Slowly. "You wanna...do something?"

By the tone of his voice, there's no doubt as to what that something is. Well, maybe a little doubt on the details.

Dean pauses. He isn't, you know, that way. Queer. God knows he isn't like Seamus, who's been a bit poofy as long as he's known him, his voice and wrists lilting just enough that he'd probably have got the stuffing beat out of him at Dean's old school if he weren't so funny. At Hogwarts, Seamus flirts with all the girls, fearless because he doesn't care which ones like him back, and always knows everything about sex despite being shut up at Hogwarts for just as much of the year as Dean is.

His mouth opens.

He knows he should say no. He should play dumb, or beg off to the bathroom where he'll probably have to wank himself as stupid as the whole question is, or just shut his mouth until this long, slow song stops and they can go back to normal. Anything but whisper "...all right."

It's not such a big thing, is it? Blokes do that. Sometimes. He can blame it on curiosity, or hormones, or maybe the fact that he just plain _likes_ Seamus better than he ever liked Ginny, because she was his girlfriend but she wasn't his friend.

And it's like those are the magic words to close the space between them, with Seamus rolling right up next to him in a trice, like it's all he's been waiting to hear all night. Then Seamus's hand jams under his waistband and it's suddenly what he's been waiting for all night too.

"Ah..."

A warm, backwards grip—not as tight as he would hold himself, and that just makes it more exciting. He closes his eyes, not knowing where to look as stiff gets even stiffer. Then he's dumbly lifting up as Seamus tugs down his shorts, baring him to the startlingly cool air that was warm and comfortable just a second ago.

He steals a peek just in time to see Seamus sitting on his heels, curling over him, opening his mouth...

"Oh, bloody hell."

That's...good, that's really good, Seamus looking like he's in a dirty movie, looking so wrong, and it feels so right, and it's Seamus doing it, doing it so well that it can't be the first time so where the hell did he learn that, and it's just so ridiculous that he can't even breathe.

He bites down hard on his lip as that heart-pounding feeling shoots down to his balls and up again, hot and wet with a soft flutter of a tongue against him. Tasting him.

Absurd as it is, he can see the pleasure on Seamus's face, as though he tastes good there, even though he can't possibly, and it feels so good that when somebody moans, he's shocked that it isn't him but Seamus. Seamus, who's making that first long suck look clumsy as he handles him all over now, stroking him, touching his balls with a careful hand that gives him the tiniest shiver of fear.

His leg twitches, and there's a sudden shock of a noise as he knocks over an empty cup. He freezes, and Seamus freezes, and then they both bust out laughing—the feeling of that around his prick doing nothing to kill his erection. He snorts, and then his laughter gives way to a soft groan as Seamus goes back to it with a vengeance. His head thumps back against the floor.

It feels...right, he realises, with a scary little skip of his heart. Scary and strange, but right, like all he has to do is lie back and stare up at the water-stained ceiling and soak it up, let it shake him, just ride it out and everything will be just as good as it feels. So good, being this close and still feeling like it's never going to end, a bead of sweat creeping down his back, and Seamus's hand on his hip, fingers splayed against his arse in a way that feels way too interesting.

He tangles Seamus's hair around his fingers, trying to slow him down without stopping him. It's...more, all of it is somehow just _more_. More than wanking under the covers, more than his own hand, more than snogging with Ginny in dark corners. It's different. His hands are on Seamus's shoulder, and they're not a girl's shoulders, and the hand on him is firm and confident, no guessing about it.

Slitted blue eyes glance up at him, and Dean's hips give a sudden buck at the reminder that this is _Seamus_, and he can't hold still any longer, trying to whisper for him to stop, that he's going to...

...but Seamus's mouth stays on him, hot and urging, still licking him while he helplessly groans and spurts into that warm, wet bliss.

Seamus raises his head slowly, and by the time Dean catches his breath, he can't tell if those pale cheeks are actually blushing or just flushed. He doesn't quite meet Seamus's eyes, his head full of roiling thoughts, and he shivers hard when he sees Seamus's tongue rolling in his mouth like he's tasting it. Savouring it. There's a little drop right in the middle of Seamus's lip, and that just makes it so much more wrong when he leans forward to see if they're kissing too.

It turns out they are.

He's flooded with relief and a crazy sort of happiness as Seamus's mouth presses to his, salty and hot. He knows kissing. He's good at kissing, Ginny said so, and Seamus...Seamus is more than good at it.

Seamus kisses slow and sweet, and that's definitely a bloke's body leaning in against him. He's vividly aware that Seamus is hard, and with a twist of his stomach, he figures it's only fair that he give what he got. His hand ghosts over the bulge in Seamus's shorts, making them both shudder.

Their eyes meet; there's surprise in Seamus's eyes and then something else slowly dawning. He has to swallow, and this time he really registers the taste of himself in Seamus's mouth, mingled with sugary Chocolate Frog sweetness and smoky liquor as the kiss turns desperate. He can feel Seamus nearly tremble as he touches him there and shivers again with a rush that makes him dizzy.

It's bizarre, and yet so frighteningly good that Dean can't hear a thing but the wet sounds of the kiss, and the thundering of his own blood, and the racing breath of his best mate who just happens to be trying to eat him alive.

He pulls back, licking his lips compulsively, trying to remember how to breathe for himself. He's twisted into a weird position, the sleeping bag bunched up under his back. "You wanna, ah, get on the bed?"

Seamus grins so brightly that it nearly lights up the room. He scrambles up onto the bed, all but yanking Dean with him as he wriggles out of his clothes.

That somehow makes it better. Dean knows this bed—nothing unfamiliar about it. He and Seamus have shared it on sleepovers, and made forts out of the bedclothes, and jumped on it until they cracked a slat. The sheets are soft and clean-smelling, and while he never thought he'd be doing this here, it's a better feeling than the slimy grass under the Quidditch stands at school or the dusty closets with Filch prowling outside.

Neck and shoulder blade and the concave dip of a hip—Dean's hands crawl everywhere, hesitant at first, stalling as he presses Seamus down and lets his lips graze over his chest, getting the hang of feeling another bloke's prick in his hand, so stiff and hot and wickedly wet at the tip.

Seamus arches into his touch, his hands trembling on Dean's shoulders, gently pushing at him, then pulling like he means to take it back. Dean resists for a moment, trying to bite down on a flat, pale belly. Suck and bite and hum, make the pale pink mark last until he's done, then try for another, and another.

"Dean..." Another push, harder this time, and an eager lift of his hips.

He closes his eyes for a moment, gathering his nerve. This is Seamus, and a mate is a mate, and he's no coward.

He creeps down, and he flinches from it the first time. A sharp scent, like how his own bed starts to smell when he wanks too often. Then the tiniest flicker of his tongue draws a soft moan out of Seamus, and Dean has a shivery second to think about just how good it felt when Seamus did it for him. He mimics what Seamus did, a hand tightening on his shoulder and a murmur that sounds like "more."

All right, he can do that. He finds a sort of rhythm, and it's heavy and warm and really not that bad in his mouth once he's past the initial weirdness. He finds himself drooling a bit, but Seamus doesn't seem to mind, and the wetness sliding down makes his touch slick when he tries stroking him too.

That brings Seamus's hips right up in a bouncing slam, nearly choking him but making him flush hot too once he pushes him down. Those sounds...little hitching swallows as Seamus squirms and drives him mad, and suddenly he can't keep from nearly laughing at how much he wants to make Seamus shoot.

A hand slips over the back of his neck, and a more than urgent "Dean!" is whispered at him, and he winces as he realises what's coming. But he doesn't pull back, achingly curious as he swallows down the first bitter-salt mouthful, wet and thick and a little gross over his tongue, but worth it when Seamus whimpers like he's going to die.

He flushes with a spark of pride as he swallows down the last of it, pulling back with a gasp and pressing his face against Seamus's belly. He bats at the hand that tries to pat him like a dog and gets a wet finger in his ear for his trouble, making both of them snort.

They lie there for several minutes as they both get their breath back, and when Seamus touches him again, it's a comfortable hand on his back. The record player stopped some time ago, and the record is making that annoying whoop-whoop sound. He should really get up and stop it, but he's not in the mood to move just yet.

He glances up at Seamus, who grins and bats his eyelashes, and he can't help but grin back. The summer ahead suddenly seems full of better things to think about.


End file.
